


Stitching

by somegunemojis



Series: Tender Mercies [31]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Mental Health Issues, Recreational Drug Use, that's vague though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:53:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26302999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somegunemojis/pseuds/somegunemojis
Summary: Monsters are just men, most of the time.
Relationships: Bettino Tahan/Ihab Rahal
Series: Tender Mercies [31]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893175





	Stitching

May, 2019 -- VR, Italia

The cold brick is rough against his back. Ihab has shoved him so many times, fists twisted into his shirt, he absently thinks the leather of his coat is going to be irreparably scuffed. Tonight, he can’t find it in himself to care. 

There’s nothing in him but a quiet sort of listlessness now, even with Ihab’s hot fingers sliding under his shirt and settling perfectly in the divots between his ribs, knee pressed firmly between Bettino’s thighs, his teeth and his lips taking turns leaving their mean marks on his neck in a dark alley. It’s all very sordid. He can’t make his fingers let go of the silk of Ihab’s hair, can’t take his eyes off the clouds of his own breath he can see crystallizing in the cool spring, yellow because of the aging, flickering street light just strong enough to cut their silhouettes-- 

Ihab leans away, and his hands go for Bettino’s belt, his eyes dyed cat-yellow by the street light too. The pupils are blown wide, Bettino can’t stop panting. He wants him. Bettino wants to pull him back into his space and kiss him and cut into him, he’s so beautiful washed and silhouetted by the dying jaundiced light, his cruel mouth pulled into a smirk. Bettino wants to put his fingers in his mouth, crawl under his skin, put him on his knees-- he knows Ihab would be more than happy with any and all of that, probably planned for it, but he can’t quite take his eyes off the clouds of his breath lingering just over Ihab’s shoulder, and he can’t quite stop the memory.

Rossi, rifle cradled in his arms, joking about being a dragon. Hoping it would finally snow a little. Catching a bullet. He thinks about it nearly every time it’s cold enough to see his breath, but now, as high as he is, he can’t force himself to stop thinking about the warm spray of blood that had dried in sticky lines across Bettino’s face and throat. 

Ihab’s fingers have already stilled by the time Bettino manages to find enough of his voice to murmur a soft, “basta,” hardly loud enough to be heard over his own heartbeat. He’s watching him carefully, cool and curious though Bettino can feel exactly how much he would like to carry on, the hard evidence pressed against his own hip. 

“What is it?” Ihab sounds… impatient, perhaps. Urgent might be a better word. Bettino can never tell if he wants to sink his teeth into his problems and shred them simply because they vex him, or if he wants to do it because that vexation distracts him-- from Ihab, from their games. He knows if there’s one thing Ihab can’t stand, it’s his divided attention; but would it really even matter? Maybe it’s enough that he wants to, no matter his reasoning. Maybe it’s enough that he notices at all. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

He knows this: he doesn’t fucking feel real. The back of his head hits the wall with a soft thump, and his hands finally drop from Ihab’s silken hair to settle on his shoulders. He watches the cloud of his breath drift away, the dark sky above them cloudy, no stars visible in the vast darkness above because of the light pollution in the city anyway. It’s nothing like Afghanistan. Still he can’t get it out of his head-- swears that if he looks down and to the left, he’ll see Rossi, bleeding on the cobblestone road, eyes wide open. “All that I am hangs by a thread tonight,” the voice that comes out of his mouth could barely qualify as a whisper, quoting a mostly-forgotten poem from a long time ago.

Ihab stares at him for a long while, a litany of unreadable expressions going to war on his face. Their chests continue to heave. Bettino sighs and settles his cold fingers against the nape of his neck, starts to pull him forward to kiss him again, but Ihab puts his hand up against Bettino’s mouth with a grimace. 

“No.”

“No?” He’s too tired to shake the hand off, or make himself sound incredulous, but the eye roll he receives in return is enough to make him quirk his lips against his hand. Ihab pulls it away, fixes his own belt, and then straightens Bettino’s leather jacket for him. 

“No. You need some sleep.” He takes a step back, tugs on his belt loop, and catches him when Bettino can’t keep his feet under him, shocked at the sudden turn. He rolls back what just took place in his head, looking for what he did wrong, and finds he already can’t remember most of it. His brows furrow. Ihab slings an arm over his shoulder companionably and shakes him. 

It’s a move he’s learned and adapted from Bettino himself. He knows that much. That’s real. 

“Less thinking, more walking.” His voice isn’t soft by any measure. Bettino doesn’t need it to be. He tucks closer to him, stealing warmth. Stealing life. Letting him guide his steps while he struggles to climb out of the pit in his head. The imaginary bloodstain isn’t left in the alley. Sometimes it isn’t. Maybe it never will be.


End file.
